divyasri krishnan


at all times i am dying. after all,

we could not have seen the guillotine.
we could not have seen the way the road

gorged itself on unvigilant passerby
& the vigilantes, too. the sky seemed

a stranger to me. i could not speak

for you as i once had; i could not
peel back the skin of an orange

without my hands

shaking like tin cans. once, a thousand
years ago,
we filled them with uncooked

grains of rice & fallen teeth. once

i was taught to dance, or maybe i learned,
but never both. at any rate my arms

fell off. so i shook them instead &

all the trinkets inside shattered together,
all the blood crystallizing with the glass

i had ingested—truly it was beautiful.

you & i, we started young;

we were early birds, we set out

even before the dawn

could bleed out across the sky.

& though we were eaten alive

it was fine; at all times we are dying

& so know that we will meet again,
either alive or a little beyond.

Divyasri Krishnan is a writer and student from Massachusetts whose work is published or forthcoming in Muzzle Magazine, Rust + Moth, Third Point Press, High Shelf Press, and others. She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and the Best of the Net Anthology and longlisted for the 2020 Palette Poetry Prize. She was a 2020 Adroit Journal Summer Mentee in Poetry, a Foyle Commended Poet, and a YoungArts honorable mention in Poetry. She posts further work @worsethanthesunflower on Instagram and enjoys bingewatching TV shows and stress-baking in her free time.